


The Bark, the Bite

by SkartoArgento



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Protect the Pritchard, Psychological Trauma, Violence, contemplating your own barely-avoided death, coworkers just being coworkers, dog baiting, fast burn, mild violence towards animals, the dog lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkartoArgento/pseuds/SkartoArgento
Summary: Jensen rescues Pritchard from a bad situation.





	The Bark, the Bite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mook5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mook5/gifts).



> This is a gift for Machsfive! Sorry it's a day late, but I hope it satisfies your protect-the-Pritchard needs!
> 
> (Taking a few liberties with Adam's augs as usual!)

At midnight, Detroit's shadows spread like mould, clogged doorways and alleys. Useful if you needed them, a terror if you needed to see.

Low light wasn't a problem for Adam; automatic adjustment of optical augmentation turned the dark to subtle grey shapes, cloaked him from the eyes of any staggering group of drunks looking to hassle augs. From the bar back to his apartment meant crossing into some unsavoury territory, and getting into a gunfight with the local gangs wasn't the best way to end a Saturday night out.

Damp mist clung to his coat. The tiny droplets danced under street lights. His sigh blew out against the sounds of cars nearby. Alone for another night. What was the point if everyone was either scared of you, or liked you a little bit too much?

The light from the Chiron building rose against the others. Great, back to an empty apartment. Lot of bottles to organise, lot of cereal to eat. Gotta keep busy.

Movement, a flash of colour at the entrance of an alley. Two men, laughing, voices rough under their footsteps.

“ – see him squeal? What a little –”

“ – when Marsh cut him I nearly lost it, fuckin' funny as –”

Thugs. Torturing someone, maybe already killed them.

No, not his place. Couldn't get involved. Not a cop, not any more.

The shadows hugged like the mist. He edged into the alley, black against black. Another gang member there, flicking through cards, an old phone pressed against an augmented ear. “Hah, yeah, guess who got his wallet? Had to fight off Mick's boys to get it – yeah, few hundred credits in there, enough to pay off Stevie. Little cunt's been bugging me for months.”

The guy didn't notice when he slipped past on the other side, back pressed against the wall. The nanoblade mechanism at his wrist whirled, silent, ready to go at any moment.

“Yeah? Yeah, he's still alive. Mick's got that dog, looks like a damn pig, but it's fast. He's gonna let it chow down on the asshole in the pit. Wish I was there to see it.”

Still alive, and faced with being bait for some junkie's roided dog.

 _Are you really going to let this go, Adam?_ Megan said in the back of his mind. His conscience always looked like her, hair down and lashes curled.

His hand clenched into a fist. _No, I can't._

He tapped the guy on the shoulder, pulled back his fist. A bewildered grunt of 'huh?' and dark eyes took him in, widened in the split-second before his hand met jaw. The blow sent the guy all the way around, forehead meeting the alley wall with a dull thump. A concussion added to whatever bones he'd broken. No guilt. None to waste on people like that.

The alley led to another street, but instead of heading down to the Chiron building, he went over, further into the inner city. HUD lit with the Wayfinder aug, triangles scurrying around nearby. Nothing that looked like a crowd and a dog.

The low mist and intermittent street lights helped conceal him from most. On the rare occasion someone spotted him – a homeless woman sheltering against the cold in an doorway, some kid who must have been all of ten – they glanced away, and he made sure he'd faded back to mist if they looked again.

Another block, and the buildings were a run-down jumble, half the windows broken or boarded, a place where the cops wouldn't go without some serious backup and where dogs weren't bred to be pets. Harder to sneak around, more people, more guns.

The abandoned building site carved a crater into the side of the street. Half-constructed pylons loomed from the dark like the masts of shipwrecks, and the skeleton of an apartment block squatted in the middle, nothing after the bones of the first four floors. Wayfinder showed a number of hostiles concentrated among the metal beams and piles of bricks, their lines of sight highlighted in glowing cones. And among them, probably, whichever poor asshole had about five minutes until he was dog bait.

Sand stuck to his shoes when he crossed the boundary into the site. A chest-high tumble of wooden planks became cover. Among the stilts and juts of the building, lights gleamed, too far away to make out the source. Voices bounced, echoed in the few rooms, ripped through by the blunt tear of furious barking. Laughter followed, derisive. His jaw clenched.

Two guards patrolling the site, guns loose in their hands. Not expecting him, or anyone to come and break up their little party. One fell with a quick discharge of stun gun, left to sleep off the shock stuffed in an over-used and under-maintained portajohn. The other managed to open her mouth and draw a breath before he punched her once in the stomach, then again in the side of her head. She went down, joined her pal in the toilet. A tight fit, but the door caught when he shoved it hard enough with a shoulder.

Enough piles of debris lay between him and the building to get close. Twelve triangles on Wayfinder. More than he liked, but less than he'd feared. Clustered together, so sneaking up and taking down one at a time wasn't an option.

From behind a pillar, he jumped, augmented legs giving an inhuman boost, and heaved himself onto half a wall, then up again to a metal beam. It took his weight – thank God – and, like a tightrope walker, he balanced with his arms away from his body. Darker up here, a good height advantage. Against another pillar he crouched, looked down over the makeshift arena.

They'd been smart, piled cinder blocks into six foot high walls. razor wire circled the top. Around the walls, a raised platform so the bastards could see the whole show. And floodlights, the enemies of shadows, high up and concentrated on the pit.

Anger had brewed inside for six months since he'd been augmented, constant and pressing, like a background noise he no longer heard. Used to it. But what churned now was a sick fury he hadn't felt since some particularly bad days in SWAT. Dog-fighting was fucked up enough – how long had these assholes been throwing humans into the mix?

Old blood formed crimson stains on concrete. Two figures in the pit.

He edged closer on his perch, paused at the sinister squeak of metal from behind, then relaxed. Just the beam settling. Probably happened all the time. Below, one of the figures stood beside the dog – a brindled mix of mastiff and something with shorter legs, a deeper chest – holding the spiked collar while it bounded on two legs and strained forward, barks bordering on hysteria. The other figure pressed against the wall of the arena, facing the dog, hidden by the dip of light. Even from high up the breathy gasps of panic filled in the silence between barks. Poor bastard.

Credit chips changed hands, and the space sparked with electrical excitement. Barks became eager whines. Eleven triangles converged, matched the group that clustered together on the platform. Their jeers flowed into savage encouragement, cries of _“You got 'bout thirty seconds to say your prayers!”_ to _“Eat 'em up, Taz!”_ that drove the dog into another frenzy.

Which target to pick first? What was the bigger threat – a dog or a dozen guns?

Inches forward on the beam, now halfway over the constructed platform. If the dog reached the guy cringing against the wall, he'd have a little bit of time – provided the guy knew the first thing about dogs and used an arm to protect the vulnerable throat area. A mauling wouldn't be pleasant, but getting shot at would end things a lot faster. He leaned over the edge, a hawk ready to dive.

Icarus alighted at his fingertips when he fell. The yellow bubble slowed him, and just over the heads of the small crowd he activated the velocity modulator. A subtle hum, and the bubble rippled with bands of gold. He must have looked like an avenging angel falling from heaven, but instead of a fiery sword he had his Icarus system. Five unconscious as soon as he landed. Yellow forks of energy discharge chain-hopped among three, sent them reeling back and stunned so well that they might as well have been knocked out. In the precious second before everything went mad, he pulled one man towards him as though ready to take them both for a spin on the dance floor, but instead punched once into the side of a knee, then into the temple. Nine down.

The bullet sang past his ear, followed by two more. One lodged in his bicep with an aching thud of pain, but bullets meant little to his augmented limbs with the sentinel health implant backing up his healing. If any of the Sarif Industries guards fired wild like that he would have taken their gun until they learned to shoot straight. Instead, he took the gun and then delivered it back butt-first into the guy's forehead.

From the pit came the sound of desperate plea. He couldn't make out any words, but it was the noise of a terrified animal caught in a trap with the hunter bearing down.

He looked over –

and Pritchard's eyes went wide and white as the dog barrelled forward, no longer restrained.

He forgot the others. Without hesitation he vaulted the wall, snagged the sleeve of his coat on the razor wire. It ripped, but who the hell cared at a time like this?

The dog crossed the pit, and he'd forgotten, in the empty months since Kubrick, how damn fast they could be when they wanted. Pritchard scooted along the wall, arms in front, defensive. He let his augmented legs do what they wanted, relaxed against the tightened muscles that gave an extra burst of speed. A roar, and the dog leapt –

– collided with his body and brought him down to the floor with a smack that hurt worse than the bullet. On top of him, it wasted no time, snapped at his face with a wet chopping noise, teeth bared and a continuous snarl guttering from its deep chest. The earthy smell of dog fur bullied up his nose; its weight pinned him to the floor. An arm blocked it under its fleshy neck, but it strained forward, and he had no choice but to give it his other arm. Sensors flashed with sudden pain. Teeth crushed down and down and down. It shook him – not in the playful-puppy style of Kubrick, but a predator trying to rip its prey apart – and his arm weakened.

No more gunfire. Their buddy had the upper hand.

The arm against the dog's chest relaxed. Another shove of heavy dog-weight, and if the mutt decided to release the arm in its jaws his face wouldn't be looking so hot, but centuries of instinct kept it clinging on. His hand crawled the agonising inches down his body, between the furry mass on top.

He brought the stun gun up with a tangle of guilt.

No yelp or whine when he pulled the trigger, but with a surprised _whuf_ the dog collapsed its full weight on top of him, out immediately.

One second to pause for breath, and then he heaved, shoved himself from under the dog and rolled it to the side. It grumbled in its sleep, a little doggy complaint. If he had time he would have rolled up his sleeve, inspected the damage, but the furious shouting from across the pit drew his attention back.

“Taz!” The guy who had been holding the dog's collar, a face full of scars, head shaved bare, brandished a pistol. “You killed my dog, fucker!”

 _It's not dead, moron,_ he would have said if the guy looked likely to consider a nice conversation over shooting him, but instead he flicked the pin of the smoke grenade at his waist, and rolled to the side when the asshole started taking pot-shots. Pritchard behind him, or to the side – had to be careful. The grenade hissed, the preliminary tendrils of smoke wavering out like reaching tentacles. He hurled it against the side of the wall. The gush filled the area in around three seconds, a grey and thick cloud that smogged up everyone's vision. Back against the wall, he moved instantly.

Another bullet cracked into the cinder blocks a good few feet away, then another in the completely wrong direction.

Wayfinder directed him to the corner. He put his hands up, felt nothing but where the blocks joined. Lower, lower, and he found a head, shoulders. On one knee, pressed right up against Pritchard, he still couldn't make out features, only the rapid breathing of shock. No time for comfort, or reassurance, or even to check one of the stray bullets hadn't hit Pritchard. He stood, took the quivering body up with him, then slung Pritchard over his shoulder. A feeble flurry at that, but he couldn't risk telling Pritchard to pipe down, they'd be on them in a matter of moments.

Ten seconds, give or take, before the smoke cleared enough. There had to be some kind of exit – surely they didn't just heave the dog up over the razor wire when they were done?

Pritchard's warmth seeped through his coat. His shoulder edged into the soft hollow of stomach, uninjured arm around the backs of thighs to make sure Pritchard didn't slip one way or the other. Weight wasn't an issue, but might throw off his balance if he needed to run.

A blip on his HUD, a small gap nearby. One hand on the wall, he moved towards it, kept his head cocked for any excited noises through the smoke that indicated they'd been found. The gap was a rudimentary chain link gate, padlocked on the other side. No match for his nanoblade, which slit the heavy chain like a knife through skin. The tinkle and then crash wasn't a stealthy sound. At a cry of _“The gate!”_ the smoke thickened with gunshots. A boot to the mesh, and the gate smashed open – and they were out, free from the pit. A quick glance behind, the smoke clambering through the razor wire, and he set off across the construction site, Pritchard gasping into his back. Balance was a little off – Pritchard must have been only an inch shorter than him.

They reached the other side of the site as the commotion started behind. Mist reached out to envelop him again, but their trail wasn't hard to track.

The alleys buried them, his footsteps hard over the background noise of cars. If he reached one of the major streets, safety. Rushing meant he passed by people, too many people – some who stopped to gawk at the Aug toting a body over his shoulder, some who scoffed or hissed or told him to _get the fuck out of here, Hanzer._

A few followed.

He glanced back over his non-Pritchard-occupied shoulder. A small group – four figures, hungry for what looked like an easy target. Weight slid, and he hoisted Pritchard back over his shoulder. The group pressed closer, wraiths in the mist. “Give me a break.”

The next alley he took, and then in the shadow of doorway let Pritchard slide back down. His palm over lips, his body crushing Pritchard back into the dark. Breath washed over his knuckles. He leaned in, chin against the side of Pritchard's jaw, and breathed, _“Don't make a sound.”_

Although Pritchard hadn't said a damn thing so far. That was something to worry about.

A flurry of steps, and the wraiths of the mist passed by them, murmuring under their breaths. Worst case scenario – harvesters. They knew how to deal with Augs.

Hands on his arms. Pritchard stared, eyes too wide and too blank. Clutched the torn and ripped sleeves of his coat. The fingertips on Pritchard's cheek touched something that stuck his fingers together. Blood. How bad he couldn't tell, but he explored further, felt the split skin that curved under an eye. Felt like it was still bleeding. Shit.

The footsteps faded. No time to waste, he hooked an arm over Pritchard's shoulder, led them slowly out of the doorway and back through the alley. Pritchard could walk, but in tiny, timid steps. Cars up ahead, maybe a block over. They left the danger zone behind, emerged out of another alley behind a Chinese restaurant.

Under a street light, he tugged Pritchard closer and stopped walking. With one thumb, he tilted Pritchard's head up and to the side. An ugly shallow gash, three inches or so. Black bruised one eye socket, and blood crusted nostrils, went with a split lip. His gaze wandered downwards. No sign of any other major wounds, and definitely no bullet wounds. “Pritchard.” He wasn't much good at the attempted mix between a firm-but-soothing tone. “Did they hurt you anywhere else?”

Glassy grey eyes blinked as though the question was too hard to grasp. In shock. Dammit. A small shake of Pritchard's shoulder, and he raised his voice a little. “Pritchard? It's Jensen. Come on, I need you to snap out of it.”

A few wandering pedestrians glanced at them, hurried on. Too public. If Pritchard had a little freak-out there in the street, the lights and noise might make it worse. He sighed. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Abandoning Pritchard at the LIMB clinic seemed so... cold. Especially with the way Pritchard wouldn't stop clutching at his coat sleeve, like some little scared kid.

The lights of the Chiron building beckoned. He rubbed the blood off his fingertips. “Guess I'm getting a room mate tonight... hope you're good with sleeping on the couch.” Pritchard's steel eyes stared into his face. He reached out, brushed a thread of blood off a pale cheek. “Should maybe try and get you cleaned up first. I think the manager hates me already. Not a great look if I bring a bleeding guy back up to my apartment.”

 

Horst's glare and shrill harpy voice followed them into the elevator.

Under warmer lights, Pritchard's skin was a sallow grey. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, a tremble ran into his own body as the elevator took them to his floor. “Just try to relax,” he said to the wall, and the clutch on his wrist tightened.

Lights blinked on in a warm greeting when he opened the apartment door. He led Pritchard inside while the home system beeped a happy 'welcome back' chime. Down the steps, and the warm air took off the chill of the streets. Boxes stacked at the sides of the rooms – Megan would have nagged him senseless about unpacking – and bottles sat on the small table beside the couch. Shit, if he knew he'd be having a guest he'd have made... a minimal effort to clean up.

Pritchard's eyes darted everywhere, to the kitchen, the table across the room with his collection of broken watches. That was a good sign. Shock hadn't locked Pritchard somewhere in the back of that brilliant mind.

“Yeah,” he said, shepherded his lost lamb to the couch, “still haven't fully moved in yet. My bedroom's not in a great state either. Sit here,” he unwound Pritchard's fingers from his coat, “and I'll go get the first aid kit. Got some painkillers you can pop if you want – not the strong ones, those are mine.”

He left Pritchard there, turned to enter his bedroom/office. Yeah, bed unmade, magazines scattered at the edges. Ashtray overflowing and get well cards long overstaying their welcome.

The cracked mirror shattered his face into shards. He turned away. What would Pritchard think of that?

His coat shrugged off over his shoulders. Thanks to the sentinel health implant, his augmented arms didn't have a scratch or dent, the pain of the dog's teeth a distant memory. He snatched the first aid kit on the shelves along with an energy boost bar and a pack of the painkillers. Had a damn lifetime supply of them after all, why not?

A step out of the bathroom, and it didn't surprise him to see Pritchard in the middle of his bedroom, hands fidgeting with the hem of a dirty turtle neck. Shame instead of shock now, a pink creep in those sallow cheeks. He didn't take another step forward, but leaned against the doorframe. “First near-death experience, huh?”

Strands of hair had escaped Pritchard's ponytail, fell down to bony shoulders. “I didn't –” The words shook, died into a whisper. He said nothing, let Pritchard try again. An angry press of lips, different to the usual sneer he'd prefer to see. “I didn't even know... what I did. I thought that side street was safe. They could have just... taken what they wanted, but one of them grabbed me –” That old familiar look, the expression of a man trying not to think about it. Pritchard sniffed, and he couldn't tell if it was a sob or from the chill of outside.

“Don't worry, I know.” A shy glint of grey eyes, wanting to believe him. He gestured to the bed. “Take your shoes off, then take a seat. We gotta clean you up, then you can stay the night on the couch. Tomorrow we'll put in a call to the DPD.” And if the memories didn't keep Pritchard awake, no doubt the nightmares would do nicely.

Assholes. Fucking assholes and their dog.

No nod, but Pritchard's hands slipped off shoes, set them down beside his desk. A clench in his stomach when Pritchard stepped onto the lowered bed and perched on the edge, but considering what could have happened tonight, letting someone else sit on his bed seemed like such a small thing. He tore open a pack of antiseptic wipes, handed one over, and kneeled beside the bed. Pritchard pressed the wipe against the wound, rubbed with gentle pressure. The white material darkened to a pinkish orange.

“Don't think I can do much about your eye. They hit you anywhere else?”

“I think...” Pritchard rolled up the turtle neck, exposed just below the jut of ribs. Fresh blue lines of bruises. A fist mark. He reached out, the movement an automatic reaction, and then drew away when Pritchard flinched back.

“Sorry. Wasn't going to touch it.”

“I called one of them an idiot. Not the smartest thing to do in hindsight.” A flash of normal-Pritchard there, but the rueful smile trembled downwards, and eyes squeezed shut.

He scooted closer. “Hey, c'mon. It's okay, you're safe now –”

“They were going to kill me, Jensen!” Pritchard's snarl was more fear than anger. “They were going to kill me with a- a _f-fucking_ dog!”

“Yeah.” His hand rested on Pritchard's shoulder, felt the shiver underneath. It went unremarked, and Pritchard swiped with antiseptic, almost hard enough to reopen the clotting slice. “But they didn't. We got out of there, and no one's gonna hurt you here. Just try and relax. We can get you to the clinic in the morning, if you want, see if everything's okay.”

“I'm...” Pritchard glanced at the hand, but didn't shake it off. “No, I don't think anything's broken. They had to keep the squeaky toy... squeaking.”

“I don't mean physically.” He moved closer, let Pritchard's shoulder go. “You got a real shock back there. If I had any tranqs I'd let you have one, but they're a little less keen to hand those over –”

“It's in my head,” Pritchard's tone dropped to an abrupt flatline. “I keep seeing that dog charging. And then I see it biting down and ripping open my neck. That's what would have happened. It was so... _close –”_

“Pritchard, don't –”

The arm around the back of his neck shut him up, froze him there on the bed. A damp forehead pressed into the crook of his shoulder. Fingers buried themselves in shirt, cold knuckles brushing his stomach. As nice as it was to see another side of Pritchard that wasn't an asshole, burrowing into him went completely the opposite direction. What should he do? Not like it was an unpleasant feeling, and fuck, he couldn't kick a traumatised guy right off his lap.

His arm reached around Pritchard's back, opened him up and enclosed them both in a smaller space. A low tingle in his stomach. God dammit.

Sniffles against his shoulder. Pritchard hadn't quite crossed over into outright crying, but it felt like an any-second thing. Even through the trauma the level of trust surprised him. He'd expect Pritchard to be a snarling beast in the corner, the wild animal rescued from the trap but still promising injury to its saviour, not... this.

A vibration of words into his shoulder, a tighten of the arms around him. “I just can''t stop thinking of all the alternate reality versions where you didn't show up.” A laugh, brittle and riding a little too much madness. “The ones where I don't come in for work on Monday, where you have to come and find me dead.”

“Bullshit.” He tried to keep his voice level, but now that got him thinking about it too. No Pritchard, finding his body days later in the gutter somewhere, face warped in shock and pain, throat a ruin of red. It _was_ close – and luck. Just luck. But Pritchard didn't need to hear that. “I'd save you. Every time.”

Pritchard pulled back from his shoulder, grey eyes searching his face for sincerity. “But what if –”

 _What if._ He'd had enough of that from his own damn mind.

He leaned in, kissed away Pritchard's next words with a gentle press of lips.

Fingers relaxed in his shirt. Far from pulling away, Pritchard nuzzled closer. He broke away after a while, guilt creeping with icy tendrils. What the hell was he doing? Pritchard had just had the mother of all adrenaline kicks, coupled with nearly being dog chow, it stood to reason some emotions would be out of whack. Had he just completely fucked things up?

Monday morning might bring Sarif barrelling into his office – _Son, Frank just told me you kissed him at the weekend, what the hell were you thinking? –_ but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite roll Pritchard off his lap.

The next kiss was all Pritchard, just when he thought things had quietened down. He stayed careful not to take it too far, responded with slow movements, pulled back when Pritchard shivered and pressed closer. His chin rested on Pritchard's shoulder, and for a few minutes, they sat there and breathed together.

The whisper in his ear, calmer now, broke the silence. “You came and saved me.”

“Sure did.”

“And I'm here. Not dead.”

“Not even close.” The smell of antiseptic reminded him of hospitals and labs when he loosened his hold on Pritchard. The wound looked as clean as it was ever getting, had stopped bleeding anyway, so he fished one of the larger band-aids from the first aid kit and stuck it over the red line. The painkillers would need water, so he stood, filled a glass from the tap in the bathroom. When he came back, Pritchard had moved back a little further onto the bed, legs crossed. Looked like the couch would be graced with him instead. He offered the painkillers, made sure Pritchard only took two, and then the water.

When Pritchard lay on his bed, eyes still bright and staring up at him, the fatigue from running around and wrestling dogs set in. He fought a yawn, lost. “At least the couch isn't too bad. I should get one of those fold-out ones that turns into a bed.”

“I was... hoping you'd stay here. This is a double bed, Jensen.”

The smile hid itself behind the line of his lips. “Need someone to keep the bad dreams away?”

“Maybe I do.” Pritchard settled back, head on the pillow.

Did he trust himself?

Hesitation lasted a lifetime, but tiredness could sway anyone. He kicked off his shoes, then his shirt. Shower could wait until morning, not like they had to be at work.

The lights flicked to the lowest setting, dimmed everything to washed-out colours. After an hour they would flick off completely, but for now, he could see all of Pritchard's features. He buried himself under the sheets, felt Pritchard do the same beside him. Been a while since he'd had anyone in bed with him, and it twisted his stomach into all sorts of shapes.

A few minutes of his heart thudding in his chest, he reached over to Pritchard, moved closer. A half-asleep murmur greeted him, arms tangled into his, a forehead against his neck. His cheek against the top of Pritchard's head, the scent of citrus floating with him.

Breathing calmed, and his whisper could have been the start of a hazy dream. “Every time.”

 


End file.
